


Straight On Till Morning

by peachchild



Series: Second Star to the Right [1]
Category: Peter Pan (1953), The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, but not really, sort of underage-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aidan is a Lost Boy who has lost his shadow, and Dean is caught between wanting to help him return to Neverland and wanting to keep him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight On Till Morning

**Author's Note:**

> It has been quite a while since I've written RPF, and this is my first foray into the Hobbit fandom, so bear with me! Criticism will be gratefully (and graciously) accepted! :3

From time to time, Dean wakes up to find Aidan's shadow crouched against his wall, wavering in the pale light of early morning, frozen like he's been caught pinching chewing gum by the corner store cashier. 

Sometimes, the shadow is all flat black lines, except around the head, which is blob of what he knows to be Aidan's curls, like he collapsed there for a nap and forgot to take his shadow with him when he woke. 

And sometimes, Dean's gone into the kitchen to put the kettle on - an old-fashioned silver thing that whistles and shrieks when the water has boiled - and Aidan's shadow flits through the sunshine at the window and hovers over his shoulder, like the smell of hot chai and warm milk has drawn him in. Dean likes those mornings best, because Aidan's shadow hasn't run away at all; he's been sent forth as a calling card, and Dean makes two cups of tea.

Aidan comes breezing through the open balcony doors just as Dean has stirred three sugars into his tea and placed it on the counter for him. His feet touch the floor practically at a run, and he all but throws himself into Dean's arms, kissing him so hard that Dean's sure Aidan's shadow has stolen his breath and flown away with it. He laughs, cupping that beautiful boyish face in his hands and pressing their mouths together again. "Hello, hello," he murmurs, brushing his lips against his jaw, the tip of his nose along the curve of his cheekbone. "It's good to see you. It's been months." 

"You know how Neverland is." Aidan smiles at him, even though Dean very clearly doesn't know at all. "Pirates to fight, mermaids to tease - it's so easy to lose track of time." He kisses him once more. "And I've been keeping a better eye on that shadow of mine." He winks, and Dean laughs. 

They sit on the balcony, because Aidan loves the sunshine, and Dean loves the sunshine with Aidan in it. Aidan dunks biscuits in his tea and chews them noisily, tucked under Dean's arm, and Dean relishes in the warmth, because he only gets these short bursts, and he doesn't want to waste them.

* * *

They have known each other for almost ten years now, though one wouldn't know it for all that Aidan has aged in that time. Every time he comes back, he's a little taller, a little broader in the shoulders, but still so terribly, fetchingly young that it's difficult for Dean to fathom sometimes. And he himself, of course, has grown older in that time - and ten years does seem so long when he thinks about it. Dean was smitten the moment Aidan crash-landed on the bed in his university dorm room, unused to flying, and grinned somewhat apologetically at the papers he sent blossoming into an unruly cloud in the process. 

"You know, Peter says all this stuff about how to fly, but never gives much actual instruction." He brushed himself off, breathless, hopping to his feet. "'Faith, trust, and pixie dust - they only go so far. The skill has to actually come from somewhere." 

Of course, Dean knew the stories. Everyone did. But almost no one got to see them in real life - especially during the day. The sightings were rare enough that the photos that turned up in gossip rags and on evening newscasts were almost always scoffed at. Still, no one in the world questioned their existence, and Dean's heart hammered against his rib cage. "You're a Lost Boy?"

Aidan nodded so proudly that Dean had to believe him, even if he was a tall twenty-something of a man, and not really a boy at all, except for his gangly limbs and almost clumsy way of skipping through the room. "My shadow's wandered off, and I know he flew in here." Aidan eyed him like he might have had something to do with it. Then he grinned. "But since he's not here anymore, would you care to help me find him?"

He held his hand out, and without a thought, Dean took it.

* * *

To this day, the bottom drops out of his stomach whenever Aidan takes him flying. But his hand is always tight and sure, solid in the grip of Aidan's fingers, and he can smell the pixie dust, pollen-sweet around them, raising them up.

"Think a happy thought," Aidan explained, when Dean asked him how he learned to fly so well in the end. 

It helped that Dean's happiest thought just so happened to be Aidan.

* * *

He stays for two days, which is his custom. Aidan has always said that Neverland sunshine is never as warm as New Zealand sunshine, and Dean, burned pink across the nose and at the back of his neck with it, always promises himself he won't take it for granted anymore, but he inevitably does, until Aidan arrives in his arms once more.

They kiss goodbye at midnight, on Dean's balcony. Aidan perches on the railing, and Dean stands between his legs, his knees pressed to Dean's hips. His shadow is long and firmly attached at his feet. "Come back sooner this time," Dean orders, running his thumb along the collar of Aidan's t-shirt. "Even if you have to let your shadow escape a little more often."

Aidan grins at him, all teeth. He touches his palm to Dean's cheek. "You could always come back with me," he suggests, not for the first time.

"I am afraid I'm not Lost Boy material," Dean quips, not for the last time.

They kiss again, and Aidan hops up onto his feet on the railing. Dean watches him fly away, past that second star. In the past, he's waited till morning, to see if he could glimpse Neverland, even though he knows it doesn't work that way. Still, it never stops him from trying.

* * *

He met Peter once.

Like all the drawings and paintings people have done of him, he is a young boy with shaggy red hair and freckles on his nose. He dive-bombed into Dean's flat two years after he met Aidan. "Sorry to drop in on you," he said with a wide grin, like it was a joke shared between them. "Shadows are kind of curious, you know. Nosy. That's why they're always right in the background of situations where they don't belong."

"I've noticed," Dean murmured, because what is the likelihood that two Lost Boys would drop in on him? The fairies have never blessed him with that amount of pixie dust. 

"Ah, but you see, Aidan's shadow was curious about _you_." Peter tapped the side of his nose, winking, and Dean wondered seriously if he was able to read his mind. "My shadow is curious about Aidan's shadow. He wanted to know where it's running off to all the time. He figured there must be something very interesting happening this side of Neverland, if Aidan's shadow wants to be here so much."

Dean's stomach twisted up, pleased as punch at the idea of Aidan's shadow running away to see _him_ in particular. "How is Aidan?"

Peter shrugged, brushed off the question with the air of someone who didn't care for such grown-up formalities. He fluttered around the ceiling, every once in a while settling with his back against the wall, legs and arms crossed, surveying the room. "Why don't you come to Neverland?"

"Why would I?"

"You like Aidan, and Aidan is there."

"I like lots of people," Dean pointed out, craning his neck to look up at him. "Most of them are here."

Peter wrinkled his nose. "You like Aidan best though."

Dean didn't bother to deny it.

Peter planted his fists on his hips. "I'll take you back with me." He wrinkled his nose again even as he said it, as if the very idea made him want to sneeze. "All you have to do is ask."

Dean was shaking his head before he finished. "I don't belong there."

Peter nodded, and didn't press it. He tipped his hat in goodbye, and he and his shadow flew away.

* * *

Aidan's frown was an ugly crease in his face when Dean told him Peter visited.

"It's none of his business," he spat, petulant and frustrated, like a possessive child. "He has no right to check up on what I do outside of Neverland." He paused, huffing a breath through his nose. "In fact, he has no right to check up on me when I'm in Neverland either. He's not our _king_." 

Dean laughed into his tea, a hollow echo. "Trouble in paradise?"

Aidan looked away, the strong jut of his jaw tight, ticking, his arms tense where they were crossed over his chest. "You're mine," he settled on, shoulders relaxing incrementally once it was said out loud. "I don't like him... butting in on that." He eased himself down on the sofa and tucked himself up under Dean's arm.

Dean felt like he should protest being claimed by Aidan like a favorite toy, but instead he just pulled him in closer, kissing his curls.

* * * 

Sometimes, Aidan is gone so long, Dean thinks he's not coming back. This is one of those times.

It's been eight months since their last sunny days together, and as Dean always does between visits, he tries to go on with his life. He goes to work, to the studio he rents to do portrait shoots. They're nothing special: mostly family portraits and new babies and engagements and graduations. Every once in a while, he does freelance work for a local newspaper. Once in a great while, he does weddings. In his free time, he sets up an easel in the light of his bay windows and paints. Lately, the paintings frustrate him, because he finds himself imagining the Neverland Aidan describes, and painting with rich colors and thick lines. Sometimes, in the trees, there is the face of a dark-haired boy, smiling. Sometimes, it's Peter Pan himself, flying out over the skyline. 

He starts novels he doesn't have the attention span to finish, and he meets his friends or brother for drinks or dinner. Three times, he goes on dates, with three different people. The third, a week ago, he even invited in at the end of the night. His name was Emmett, and he was tall and lanky, with a boyish grin and an easy laugh. When Dean sent him home in the morning, he kissed him goodbye with a hand at his shoulder and told him he'd call, but he hasn't yet.

Somehow, it all comes back to Aidan, and how much he misses him - and every once in a while, a dreamy look must take over his face, because people say, "I guess Dean's gone to Neverland again," and they don't know how right they are.

If he's honest with himself, and he usually is, he's been in love with Aidan since his shadow first sidled up onto his wall when he was nineteen. The realistic part of him, and that's a pretty big part of him, knows that a relationship with a Lost Boy is not an option. The whole thing makes him a little hysterical, because he never thought that he might have to consider moving to Neverland in order to make a relationship work. It makes the whole business that much more surreal. And as much as he sometimes wishes he was, he has never wanted to be a Lost Boy. Not even for Aidan could he try.

* * *

"I know a Lost Boy," he finds himself saying one day, as he eats breakfast with Emmett in a cafe around the corner from his flat. They have been seeing each other semi-regularly for almost a month, and Dean is trying his best to pretend that his interest isn't already waning. The sex is good, and the company pleasant, but when he's so used to a man who can literally take him flying, films and dinner and dancing don't really measure up.

Emmett looks up at him, chewing his eggs slowly. He takes a long sip of his coffee before he responds. "Do you really?" he asks carefully, like he's not quite sure if Dean's putting him on.

He nods, looking down into his tea. "I met him when I was in uni. His name is Aidan. He visits every once in a while, but it's been a long time."

"Don't Lost Boys generally stay in Neverland?"

"Usually, but Aidan said he likes the weather here better than Neverland. And we're friends, so he comes to see me."

"How old is he?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe twenty? He's told me that he comes here often enough that he ages incrementally. He went to Neverland when he was twelve." 

Emmett smiles. "I'd like to meet him. It's not every day you've got two degrees separating you from a Lost Boy."

"Yes, you're only three degrees from Peter Pan himself," Dean laughs.

Emmett asks him questions about Aidan, and what they do when he comes to visit, and Dean answers them the best he can. He doesn't share how he feels about him, or the fact that they kiss sometimes as if they're never going to see each other again, and Emmett, if he realizes something is there, doesn't ask.

Later, by the light of an early afternoon sun, Dean kneels on the floor of his living room and sucks Emmett off with Emmett's hands in his hair, and tries to convince himself that he's doing it because he wants to, and not just to thank him for not thinking him completely mad.

* * *

April drizzles and drips its way into May, and Dean begins to relish the scent of fresh grass and the fishy-sweet breeze from the sea that summer always brings with it, and he is pretty sure he has somehow swallowed his heart when he walks into his kitchen one day, just as Aidan swoops in through the window. The Lost Boy's grin is fast, and fast-fading. "Where is it?"

Dean blinks at him, trying to scale back his smile - because he is _so happy_ to see him - and looks around. "Where is what?"

"My shadow!" Aidan bursts past him, frowning around at the kitchen cabinets, but no light falls across them and therefore no shadows at all. "It's not here?" 

"I'm sure he'll turn up." Even though Dean knows that a shadow isn't really a person, it is an extension of Aidan himself, with his curls and smile and playful way of bouncing around the flat. "He disappears all the time, doesn't he?"

"It doesn't _disappear_." Aidan presses himself into Dean's arms, as if he suddenly realized he forgot to greet him in his anxiety. "It comes here. It _always_ comes here, Dean." He noses in at Dean's neck, frustrated and somehow still trembling with affection, the same way Dean feels like holding him close and murmuring into his hair how much he missed him. "I don't know where else it would go."

"Maybe it's tired of me." Even as he says it, Dean feels sick at the idea of it. "Maybe it's gone and fallen in love with someone else." And even as he says _that_ , even as a joke, dread drops heavy in the pit of his stomach because love - _love_ \- has never been a part of the equation between them.

But Aidan just glares at him, eyes fierce and beautiful under that dark brow, and growls, " _Never._ " He cups his hands around Dean's face and drags him in to kiss him. Dean presses him back against the kitchen counter, his hand tight against his shoulder blades, his other gentle at his hip. They kiss, sweet and slow, for what feels like forever, like they're making up for lost time, and Dean feels a surge down his spine each time Aidan dips his tongue into his mouth or scrapes his teeth across his lip. 

For a while, they forget about Aidan's wayward shadow.

It's later, when they've curled up sleepy and warm on the sofa that Aidan murmurs against his shoulder, "It's just that I can't go back without it."

* * *

Aidan kissed him for the first time after their first (and only) argument.

It was petty at best. Dean wanted to make the most of the few days they had together before Aidan returned to Neverland, and was therefore not really in the mood to go to the top of Mount Everest, even if he only had to fly to get there. 

"It's cold," he said. "It's the dead middle of summer, and I have no interest in going somewhere that's cold."

Aidan frowned. "You've never been curious to know what's at the top of the tallest mountain in the world?" he countered. "You're going to pass up an opportunity to go there, when you don't even have to climb it or anything?"

"It's not that I don't like the idea. It's just not what I want to do _today_."

"And what, may I ask, do you want to do today?"

"I want to go to the park with you." Dean squeezed the back of his neck. "I want to play football and have a picnic." 

Aidan wrinkled his nose. "That sounds _boring_ ," he burst out, despite what Dean could see was every attempt not to. "Who wants to go sit in the park, which you can do any day, when we've got an opportunity to do something really fun and interesting?" 

The words made something sting at the back of Dean's eyes, and he looked away. Boring. Dean was boring, and so was Dean's life, and suddenly, for the first time since he'd met Aidan, Dean felt old and tired and very, very far removed from him. He understood why he wasn't a Lost Boy, and he understood why Aidan would always choose Neverland. He cleared his throat, and pointedly did not look at Aidan, whose head was tilted to the side in that curious way children sometimes do when they know someone is sad and don't understand why. "You go, then," he offered, and tried not to sound very bitter when he added, "I certainly wouldn't want to bore you."

The uncertainty cleared from Aidan's face, and he knelt on the couch beside him, cupping his hands around Dean's face. "Don't be cross with me," he said quietly, nosing at his cheek. "I wasn't trying to upset you. I'm sorry." And then he kissed him, a soft press of his lips to Dean's, careful and determined. 

Dean lifted his head, leaning into him, and curled his fingers around the back of his neck, and returned the kiss, just as slowly, even more gently. He pressed his tongue against the seam of his lips, and Aidan made a soft sound in his throat, pressing harder against him. Dean cupped his chin in his hand, coaxing him to open his mouth. Aidan was hesitant, and his inexperience made Dean's heart hurt, because he was _so beautiful_ , and the way his tongue moved, shy and sweet, against Dean's, made something warm in his stomach, made him feel protective and so fucking privileged.

They kissed until Aidan went soft and pliant against Dean, his hand resting against his chest, too sleepy and content to do more than move their mouths together.

In the end, they didn't go to the park, and they didn't go to Mount Everest. They drove more than an hour out of the city to go to the beach, where they held hands and waded in the cool water, and shared ice creams. From time to time, Aidan would draw Dean in close to kiss him, and Dean thought he might be on the best adventure yet.

* * * 

Aidan has been padding around Dean's flat for four days, with no sign of his shadow. Dean thinks he should probably be trying a little harder to help him look for it, but he can't help but want to put it off, so that he'll stay. He wants to see him each morning, perched on the counter, bare feet swinging, as he eats cereal and chases it with orange juice. He wants to find him crawling like a cat into his - their - bed at night, to tuck up against his side and purr his way into sleep with Dean's hands in his hair. He wants him bouncing along the street beside him, following him to work, sitting quietly off to one side, patiently even, while Dean takes photos.

"I like to watch you like that," he says, his fingers tucked loosely around Dean's wrist, as they walk home from a particularly grueling shoot with a newborn baby that would not stop crying. "You're so focused. Serious."

"Grown-up?" Dean teases, because the novelty is not often lost on Aidan; being a Lost Boy means not growing up, not really, though Aidan has always been different in that regard, being away from Neverland often enough that he has sprung up like a young tree, tall and handsome. 

"No," Aidan huffs knocking his shoulder into Dean's. "Just - attentive. Like what you're doing at right at that moment is the most important thing in the world." He pauses. "Is everyone like that?"

"What?"

"Is everyone like that sometimes? Where they love something so much that they could do it every day, like you do?"

Dean laughs quietly, curls his arm around Aidan's waist. "No. Not everyone has something like that. It would be a much better world if they did."

"It would be. At least a more interesting one," Aidan agrees, nuzzling against Dean's hair, an oversized cat. "I love you." 

Dean's heart almost punches out of his chest. He hates that his throat gets too tight for him to say it back. He kisses Aidan's cheek instead.

* * * 

That night, Aidan sprawls on Dean's bed, fast asleep and snoring softly. He's taken to going to bed in Dean's boxers, which are a little too small, since he's grown like a weed in the last few years and is several inches taller than him. Dean can't help but get out his camera, too aware of what Aidan said about him earlier - his attentiveness, his focus. He takes the photos as quietly as he can, moving around him carefully. Aidan hugs his pillow, nuzzling into it. He has the beginnings of stubble on his jaw, a shadow that makes Dean wonder if being away from Neverland has put an end to his perpetual boyishness. His back is a sleek line of muscle, his shoulders broad, tapering down to his trim waist. Dean feels a sharp stab in his gut, followed by an uncomfortable tightening in his chest; as much as Aidan is a grown man - a _beautiful_ man with the kind of smile could make you commit murder - he is also so terribly _young_ that Dean feels guilty for wanting him so much.

Aidan's eyes blink open when Dean gets a little too close in order to get a photo of his face, mashed sleepy-pink against the pillow. He can't help but snap several more when he smiles up at him, bashful, and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye. "What are you doing?" he slurs, rolling over onto his back.

Dean is unexpectedly embarrassed, but he still can't quite stop himself from pressing a knee to the edge of the mattress and taking a photo of him spread out that way, his dark hair mussed like a halo against the white pillow. He fiddles with the lens on his camera. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. You're just so lovely."

Aidan rubs his hands over his face, groaning. "You're ridiculous." His smile betrays him. "Can I see them?"

"No, I'm going to keep them all to myself."

"You're not!" Aidan bats at him, laughing. "Show me."

Dean rolls his eyes, crawling up onto the bed beside him and flopping down so they can lie shoulder to shoulder. Aidan tucks his head up against Dean's neck, and he holds the camera above them so he can click through the photos. Aidan is quiet beside him. 

"Is this really how I look to you?" he asks eventually, touching his fingers to the screen, where he sees his own face smiling back at him. His voice is soft, barely breaking the nighttime calm of the bedroom. "When you look at me, do I - am I really like this?"

Dean shifts, wiggles down so he can look at his face, at his big dark eyes and soft frown. "Like what?"

"Like I'm something special."

He laughs, a little hysterical. "You flew in through my window, Aidan. You're so special."

Aidan makes a soft wounded sound in his throat and curls onto his side, tucking his nose behind Dean's ear. He falls asleep like that, breathing in soft wheezes against his neck. 

Dean feels somehow like he's failed a test.

* * * 

Dean's not sure what exactly brings it to his attention, but when he notices, all he can think to say is, "You've been drinking your tea at the table."

Aidan looks up at him, startled, and curls his hands self-consciously around his mug. "Yes?"

"You haven't been sitting on the ceiling." It's been one of the little delights of Dean's mornings, to find Aidan hovering against a high corner of the kitchen, legs crossed, chewing at a piece of toast and wishing him a good morning with his mouth full. 

Aidan puts the mug down, turns it in a slow scraping circle on the tabletop, avoiding Dean's gaze. "I've run out of pixie dust," he murmurs, a dark flush starting at the back of his neck.

Dean almost laughs, because he always thought the pixie dust was a myth, or at the very least that the importance of it was played up. He manages not to, because Aidan looks small and scared, his shoulders curved in. "All of it?"

He nods, brushing his curls back from his face. His hair is getting long. Dean absently considers asking him if he wants to get it cut at some point. "It's alright," he says quietly, almost a question. "I'm sure my shadow will be back any day now, and Peter will come to get me. He'll bring me more pixie dust. It'll be fine."

Dean chews on the nail of his little finger, anxiety welling in his throat. "Yeah, sure. It'll work out fine, I'm sure." 

Aidan looks up at him through the soft dark curve of his eyelashes. "Can you really promise that?"

"What?"

"That it'll work out."

Dean's heart clenches, and he squeezes Aidan's hand. "Even if it doesn't work out the way we expect, it'll work out some way." 

Aidan looks down into his tea. "I hope you're right."

* * *

Aidan met Peter Pan when he was twelve years old. 

And honestly, twelve is a little old to become a Lost Boy, but Peter always, ironically, liked to sound like a grown-up and said these were "special circumstances." Because Aidan had no reason not to go to Neverland. It's always easy to become a Lost Boy when no one is going to notice you're lost.

"Don't worry, Aidan," Peter thumbed his nose at the foster family they were leaving behind, flying as they were over the Irish Sea. "Where we're going, you won't have to worry about families and rules and behaving at all."

Aidan liked the idea of not having to worry about those things: about whether the family he lived with this week would be the same family he lived with next week, about whether he was quiet and well-behaved and well-mannered enough to warrant loving. So he went with Peter Pan to Neverland. The problem he faced, of course, was that he loved this world. He loved people and all their flaws. He loved the heat of the sun, and the feel of wet sand between his fingers, and walking on cool grass. He loved it when people laughed, or kissed, or shouted at each other in the streets.

And because he loved the world, he used far too much pixie dust to come back and visit it. Even a Lost Boy, too long from Neverland, begins to grow up, and Aidan certainly grew. He became a tall, thin, handsome man, with all the boyish grins of someone with no responsibility to speak of.

He had lived in Neverland for twelve years when he first saw Dean. Aidan visited New Zealand a lot, because he liked the rain and bustling cities and green, green hills and blue, blue ocean. The day he visited Auckland, where the streets were full of young people - artists and students and lovers - he perched cross-legged in a tree and watched them: smelled the collective coffees and teas and beers, felt the beat of a late summer sun.

And Dean: with his hair the color of sand and his eyes the color of coastline waters and that smile. The smile did him in really, with those deep dimples and ridiculously white teeth. He was a Lost Boy without being lost at all, and Aidan wanted to be his. 

Aidan's shadow began to run away after that. It always ran to Dean.

* * * 

"I have to tell you something," Aidan breathes out, smoothing his hands across Dean's collarbones. He burrows down to get cozier in their bed - because it is _theirs_ now, surely - shivering at the cool breeze that drifts through the open window. 

It's unseasonably chilly, and they spent the morning running errands and dodging raindrops, before coming home and curling up in their warm bed, sharing kisses and touches and speaking only in whispers. Aidan is delighted by the colder weather, by the way it dusts his face pink and makes his nose run, and more for how it makes Dean want to huddle close to him. Neverland is always high-summer warm. The novelty of weather has not yet worn off.

Dean dips his head to press an open-mouthed kiss behind his ear, and Aidan tips his head to the side. "Sounds serious," he teases. "What is it?"

"I know where my shadow is."

Dean goes still. He noses at his jawline before lifting his head. "Do you?" he says faintly, his face strangely blank. 

He nods. "Peter has it. He came to see me. While you were at work the other morning, when I slept in?" he reminds him carefully.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? That means you can go back to Neverland."

"It's - no. It's not like that." He hesitates. "He has it because he took it. He... stole it, I guess."

"Why would he do that?"

"He said he's not sure I belong in Neverland anymore."

"What?" Dean's tone is sharper than he intended, and Aidan flinches. He rolls off of him to sit up, shifting to face him. Aidan pushes his back up against the headboard. "Why would he say that? You're a Lost Boy as much as he is."

"I'm not though," Aidan explains, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm not at all. I haven't been for a long time. Peter always put up with me going back because he likes me, but he's beginning to wonder if that was the right decision. He thinks I might be too grownup."

Dean's expression clears the moment he says it. It's obvious that Aidan is no longer a Lost Boy. He is a beautiful, sometimes solemn young man, and Dean loves him. He would be out of place among Peter Pan's friends. "So you're staying here?"

Aidan picks at a loose thread on the duvet. "I don't know. I suppose for a while at least. Peter said it's ultimately my choice, and he'll let me make it. But if I go back, I have to go for good. I won't be able to keep visiting like this." 

Dean feels like all the seams have just been ripped clear out of his life and he's watching it unravel. He moves in closer to Aidan, presses their legs up tight next to each other and curls his arms around him, kissing his hair. "I would miss you," he murmurs, a crack running jagged on the edge of his voice.

Aidan grips at Dean's shirt, pressing his face in against his neck. "I would miss you too."

They're quiet for a long time, just breathing into each other. "It has to be your decision," Dean says finally. "How long did he give you?"

"A month."

Dean tells himself firmly that he will make that month worth remembering for the rest of his life, just in case.

* * *

Emmett appears at his door with bagels and coffee a week later. He greets Dean with a kiss to his cheek, and Dean awkwardly steps to the side to let him into the flat. "I haven't spoken to you in days," he explains, showing himself into the kitchen so he can put the bagels on plates. "I was starting to worry that you'd cooped yourself up in your studio and were refusing to see anyone."

Dean almost blushes at the thought, because he's certainly been _that_ artist in the past, the one who gets surges of inspiration and locks himself away, refusing to speak to anyone, for days or weeks at a time. The fact that Emmett's been around long enough to know that makes him feel a swell of affection for him, even as he knows that what's happened between them isn't anything particularly dear to him, or anything that's going to last. 

"Sorry, I've just had company," he offers, scrubbing his hand through his hair so that it stands on end. He realizes a little belatedly that he's still in his pajamas. "I meant to call, actually."

Aidan chooses that moment to come padding barefoot from Dean's bedroom, practically swimming in the oversized shirt and pajama pants he slept it. He rubs his eyes like a child, blinking curiously at Emmett. Emmett's movements slow, as if he's trying to process what's happening and trying to decide how he's going to react to it at the same time. His eyes flit from Dean's face to Aidan's and back again, and he finally clears his throat and smiles. Dean can practically read the thought process on his face: _Well, it's not as if we've made anything official between us._ His heart aches that Emmett is so sweet, he's willing to give him that wiggle room. "Who's this then?"

"This is Aidan," Dean says slowly, beckoning Aidan, who has turned suddenly shy, into the kitchen. "Aidan, this is my friend Emmett."

It takes Emmett a moment, but his expression clears. "Aidan? As in...?" Dean nods. "Well. It's nice to finally meet you, Aidan. Dean's talked a lot about you." And that's not strictly true, but the one time, he _did_ talk about Aidan, he talked about him for a very long time. He's still surprised that Emmett didn't catch on right then that he's completely in love with him.

Aidan, in his turn, seems surprised, and he looks over at Dean. "Has he?" he murmurs, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth, eyes on Dean. 

"Of course. It's not every day that one of your mates is from Neverland, am I right?" Emmett grins, and the smile all but plummets from Aidan's face. "You'll have to tell me all about it sometime."

Aidan nods distractedly and wanders back toward the bedroom. Dean frowns at his retreating back, turning an apologetic smile on Emmett once the door closes. "I'm sorry. He's not usually like that. I don't know what's up with him this morning."

Emmett shrugs. "It's alright. When you've talked about him... I guess I didn't expect him to look like that."

"Like what?"

"Fucking gorgeous. Holy hell."

Dean almost barks out a laugh, a little hysterical, because _holy hell_ indeed. "Yeah, I'm still a little surprised by it myself from time to time."

Emmett doesn't say anything for a long moment, and his eyes linger on Dean's face. "Is he..." He pauses, like he's thought better of what he was going to ask and is trying to think of how to better phrase it. "Do you expect he'll be going back to Neverland?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugs, panic welling in his throat, and he is suddenly so angry at Emmett for being simultaneously so understanding and wonderful and also the most ridiculously intuitive person in the whole world, like he knows exactly what's going on, just by walking into the room, by taking one look at Aidan's face. "I'm trying not to think about it. If he goes back, I won't ever see him again." The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them, because he knows how it must sound to Emmett. 

But Emmett just nods and reaches over to squeeze Dean's shoulder. "I'm sure it'll work out," he offers kindly. "And I'm here if you need anything, okay?"

And just like that, they're over, and Dean breathes out his relief.

* * * 

Aidan's gone quiet and unhappy, sharp and gloomy around the edges. His temper is quick, and he jerks out of the way of even the most casual touches. Dean has taken to spending nights on the couch, giving Aidan the space he seems to want, even though to do so put an unhappy ache in his stomach. He doesn't sleep well, and his eyes feel tight and dry. 

It's clear to him that the joys Aidan takes in being in in this world have fizzled and vanished, all of its charms shown to be farces, now that he has nowhere to escape to. He knows that at the end of the month, when Peter returns to ask Aidan his decision, his shadow in tow, Aidan is going to ask for pixie dust, and he is going to go away, past the second star to the right, and Dean will never see him again. He actually loses his appetite at the thought, and he tries to coax Aidan into enjoying his company, into enjoying his time here. He takes him out on the town, laughs softly when Aidan's face puckers at the sour cider he insists on ordering too, when Dean orders one for himself. They go for walks uptown, and along the harbor, and Dean makes up stories about the people they see, scurrying down the pavement or wandering close to the water, and sometimes, Aidan smiles despite himself, his knuckles knocking against Dean's, and sometimes, his eyes are endless and far away, and Dean can't begin to guess what he's thinking of, what sweet adventures are waiting for him in Neverland, waiting for him to return to them.

The weeks creep by, as Dean feels anxiety swell up as a lump in the back of his throat, leaving him itching to know if Aidan will leave him, but they also fly, as if mocking Dean for his promise to himself to make these most of these last days with Aidan, because no matter what he does, he'll never have enough of him. 

And suddenly, there is only one more week, and Dean is desperate. Aidan's mood takes a nosedive, and he wakes to find he's giving him the silent treatment completely.

"Tell me what I can do," Dean says quietly, finally broaching the subject, after a failed attempt to raise his spirits with chocolate chip pancakes. "I don't want our last week to be like this. Whatever I've done, please tell me how I can fix it."

Aidan looks sharply up at him. "Our last week?"

"Yes. Peter comes back on Saturday."

His fingers curl into fists on the table. "So that's it then? You've decided for me that I'm going back."

Dean blinks at him, startled. "I... No, of course not. I just thought - you've been so unhappy. I thought that you've missed Neverland."

"That's not it." Aidan tightens his arms self-consciously across his chest. "You could have just _asked_ , you know. You don't have to assume you know everything about me."

Dean's temper flares. "And _you_ could just tell me what's wrong. I can't read your mind, Aidan, and you've barely spoken to me since you told me about Peter. What am I supposed to think, except that you don't want to be here with me anymore?"

"Maybe that's true!" Aidan is shouting now, and it hits Dean like a slap in the face that Aidan is still a _child_ in some ways - a child who throws temper tantrums. "Maybe I don't want to be around you! And maybe you don't want to be around me! You've made that pretty clear!"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Dean's laugh is ragged with bitterness. "Seriously, are you fucking joking? I have been trying to spend every second with you because I'm going to miss you so fucking much if you go back. I _love you_ , Aidan. How could you possibly even come up with that? What a fucking joke!"

Aidan stares at him, his eyes round and bottomless. He doesn't speak for a long time, and they breathe in the silence that spans the table between them. Dean thinks, a little ridiculously, that it's almost funny that they're having a shouting match over plates of pancakes and glasses of orange juice. "You love me?" Aidan finally says, voice faint. 

And Dean feels like an idiot. Because as often as he's thought it, and kissed it into Aidan's skin, and laughed it into the sky every time Aidan ran him around Auckland, he has never said it out loud, and certainly not to Aidan himself. But he doesn't apologize, and he doesn't give into his urge to write sonnets about the beautiful, gobsmacked expression on the Lost Boy's face. He swallows, and he says, "Of course I do."

Aidan ducks his head, scrapes the prongs of his fork against the edge of his plate. It squeaks and grinds, and he stops, sets it neatly on the table, parallel to his plate. "You would love me if I stayed here?"

"You know I would."

"You know if I stayed, I wouldn't be able to fly. Fairies wouldn't come visit me. I'd grow up. I'd get old." 

Dean laughs breathlessly. "I would love you despite and because of all of those things." Even as he says it, he realizes the insecurity Aidan has been living with, fighting against. Of course, he thought Dean cared about him and wanted him around because he was a Lost Boy, because he was something exotic and special, and not because he was this beautiful boy with the brightest smile and most genuine love of the world that anyone's ever had. He pushes his chair back, moving around to the other side of the table, where he pulls Aidan's chair out to the side and kneels in front of him, resting his folded arms on his legs. "Aidan, I would love you if you got a job in an office and got fat around the middle and slept in late on Saturdays and sometimes forgot to shave. I would love you if we didn't go on adventures ever again, but stayed curled up in our flat watching reality television and eating crisps." When Aidan wrinkles his nose, Dean laughs. "And I would love you if we drove somewhere new every single weekend and met new people and saw all new adventures."

Aidan runs his fingers through Dean's hair, the corner of his mouth quirking up when Dean closes his eyes, humming. "Really?" he says, his voice barely there, an almost-whisper. 

"Really." He turns his head to mouth at the inside of his wrist. "Remember when you asked me if everyone in the world has something they're passionate about, the way I am about photography? _Your_ passion is the whole world. Do you know how unusual that is? What a blessing it is to know someone like you?"

"Stop it," Aidan laughs out, breathless, the tips of his ears and tops of his cheeks pink. "So if I stay, you'll keep me forever, because I'm so special?" He's teasing, and Dean is so pleased to hear the smile in his voice.

"If you stay, you'll have to fight to get me to let you go," he says honestly. "I'll hold onto you with all my might."

* * *

Things change between them, which can only be expected, really. Dean goes back to sleeping in his bed at night, with Aidan curled under his arm like a cat. He wakes to shy kisses being pressed to his neck, long fingers tracing the curves of his collarbones. They spend the days planning for the future, because Aidan doesn't even officially exist, and he has almost none of his own clothes or shoes or pretty much anything else, and Dean drags him through various stores to stock up. They make a visit to social services, to explain the situation, and while they have to dust off some old volumes, they are able to find a precedent for a Lost Boy returning from Neverland, and the process to make Aidan a citizen of New Zealand begins. 

Dean vibrates with the excitement of it all, of having Aidan so close to being his for good, not something he has to share with another group of people, a whole other world. Sometimes, he can't help but drag him close and kiss him hard, so that Aidan has to just grip onto his elbows and yield to his mouth, pressing against him, and Dean remembers again that he is the only one who's gotten to know Aidan like this, and he hopefully will be the only one who ever does.

The day before Peter is set to return for Aidan's decision, Dean wakes to find Aidan lying on his back beside him, big eyes on his face. He grins sleepily and rubs his eyes before letting his hand rest on his stomach, just below his belly button, edging close to him to press a kiss to the crown of his shoulder. Aidan draws him up, his arms hooked around his neck, and Dean kisses the taste of sleep from his mouth, their tongues sliding together. His hand slides around to Aidan's hip, his little finger dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and Aidan's breaths hitch and speed up. He presses his chest up against Dean's, so eager that their teeth knock together, and Dean pulls back a little, coaxing him into relaxation with careful presses of his lips, until Aidan's hands mellow, settling to cup Dean's neck, gentle and at ease. 

He's not sure what makes this moment the right one, but it is. He can feel it in the air, like a breeze cooling them as the sun warms them. They are relaxed, in no hurry, because they have all the time in the world, and the realization makes the whole thing so much sweeter for Dean. He breaks their kiss slowly, letting Aidan press his head up to join their mouths again, letting him ease out of it at his own pace. When he finally rests his head back against the pillow, Dean makes sure to keep their eyes locked, his expression serene, to radiate comfort and calm and joy. He pushes his hand into Aidan's boxers, drawing them down his thigh, his breath catching when Aidan bites his lip, lifts his hips, so that Dean can drag them all the way down around his knees. He keeps his eyes on Aidan's face, because it is so important that he be comfortable for this, that Dean stay aware of everything he's feeling right now.

Aidan is already half-hard when Dean curls his fingers around his cock, and he makes a soft sound in his throat, his fingers tightening at the back of Dean's neck. Dean presses a reassuring kiss to the corner of his mouth, his hand moving slowly, his thumb running along the underside, and as his cock fills under his touches, Aidan's breaths go tight and quick, and Dean tries to remember what it's like, to be this sensitive, that even these light touches would be enough to leave him feeling wound up, the muscles in his shoulders and thighs tense. 

"I love you," Aidan whispers, staring up at him through his eyelashes, and Dean kisses him again, jerking him off slowly, his thumb smoothing over the tip of his cock, already beading wet and slick. Heat pools low in Dean's belly at the soft whimpers Aidan just can't seem to stop, the way his hands pet down Dean's chest almost frantically, like he's not sure what to hold onto. He sobs when he comes, painting his belly with it, arching off the bed, his head tilting back against the pillow. Dean's name is a mantra on his lips, and he's sure Aidan is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, with his cock soft against his thigh and his eyelids drooping sleepily already. 

They kiss lazily, slow slides of their tongues and lips, soft scrapes of teeth against skin, and Dean eventually goes to get a wet cloth to clean him up. When he comes back, Aidan has done away with his boxers completely, lying sprawled comfortable in his skin across the bed. He giggles when Dean wipes the cloth against his stomach and after he tosses it in the hamper, he holds his arms out for Dean, beckoning him back into bed. Dean is so happy, he thinks he might cry.

Later, when they've finally ventured outside, and the sun shines down over them, Aidan's shadow stretches out long behind him. Dean looks up at the sky.

Thank you, Peter Pan.


End file.
